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SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 
AND    OTHER    LYRICS 


THE  Triton  in  the  Ilex-ivood 
Is  lonely  at  Castello. 
The  snow  is  on  him  like  a  hood, 
The  fountain-reeds  are  yelloiv. 

But  never  Triton  sorrozved  yet 
For  weather  chill  or  mellow  : 

He  mourns,  my  Dear,  that  you  forget 
The  gardens  of  Castello  ! 

A.    MARY    F.    ROBINSON. 


SPRING  IN  TUSCANY  and  other 
LYRICS  PRTNTED  FOR  AND  PUB- 
LISHED BY  THOMAS  B  MOSHER  PORTLAND 
MAINE  MDCCCCXII 


EX1 


CONTENTS 


PROEM 

3 

I 

SPRING    IN    TUSCANY     . 

5 

II 

WITH    A    POETRY    BOOK 

IO 

III 

UMBRIA 

12 

IV 

IN    FLORENCE 

15 

V 

FLORENTINE    MAY 

20 

VI 

RICORDI 

23 

VII 

IN    AN    ARBOUR,    ASOLO 

26 

nil 

RELICS 

31 

IX 

IN    A    GONDOLA     . 

36 

X 

LA    RETRAITE 

44 

XI 

O    PRIMAVERA,  GIOVENTU    DI 

:  l'a> 

INO 

46 

576409 

LISRARf 


FOREWORD 

THE  white  magic  of  style  is  seldom  displayed 
to  greater  adva?itage  than  when  it  has  to  do 
with  Italy.  If  this  be  true  of  prose  such  as  Pater's 
Renaissance  and  Maurice  Hewletfs  Earthwork 
out  of  Tuscany  it  is  doubly  true  of  the  poetry  that 
has  gathered  around  all  things  Italian  and,  like 
11  music  slumbering  in  the  shell"  become  audible. 
Four  lyrics  chosen  for  an  earlier  volume  in  this 
series  are  here  augmented  a?id  carried  out  with 
variations  upon  the  same  underlying  theme :  music 
that  closes  in  " commiserating  sevenths"  —  beauty 
that  at  last  must  lose  its  lustrous  gaze  and  die. 

Our  choice  ranges  from  the  unknown  writer 
who  signs  his  poem  "Aureolus  Paracelsus"  an 
u?idoubted  disciple  of  Broiuning  as  the  name  alone 
tvould  imply,  to  an  almost  equally  ufiknown  poet 
from  whose  unique  little  volume  Galeazzo :  A 
Venetian  Episode  (1886)  two  poems  are  given. 


FOREWORD 


One  lyric  has  the  added  pathos  of  a  young  life 
that  never  grew  old.  Cora  Fabbri  died  in  i8q2  at 
the  age  of  twenty  years,  and  did  not  live  to  see  the 
Lyrics  she  had  written  as  they  were  issued  in  their 
beautiful  first  editio?i.  It  is  with  the  permission  of 
her  publishers,  the  Messrs.  Harper,  that  we  are 
now  enabled  to  reprint  In  Florence. 

The  fiames  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne, 
fohn  Addington  Symonds,  A.  Mary  F.  Robin so >n 
and  Laurence  Binyon  require  no  introduction  or 
commendation  from  us.  As  for  the  passage  from 
Guarini  which  closes  our  selections  it  will  probably 
never  find  a  tra?islator  who  may  hope  to  equal 
Leigh  Hunt  in  recapturing  "  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful sighs  "  that  ever  greeted  the  return  of  spring. 

T.    B.    M. 


SPRING  IN  TUSCANY 
AND  OTHER  LYRICS 


PROEM 


O  DEATH  of  things  that  are,  Eternity 
Of  things  that  seem ; 
Of  all  the  happy  past  remains  to  me, 
To-day,  a  dream  ! 


Long  blessed  days  of  love  and  wakening  thought, 

All,  all  are  dead ; 
Nothing  endures  we  did,  nothing  we  wrought, 

Nothing  we  said. 

But  once  I  dreamed  I  sat  and  sang  with  you 

On  Ida  hill. 
There,  in  the  echoes  of  my  life,  we  two 

Are  singing  still. 

A.    MARY    F.    ROBINSON. 


SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 

ROSE-RED  lilies  that  bloom  on  the  banner ; 
Rose-cheeked  gardens  that  revel  in  spring; 
Rose-mouthed  acacias  that  laugh  as  they 
climb, 
Like  plumes  for  a  queen's  hand  fashioned  to  fan 
her 
With  wind  more  soft  than  a  wild  dove's  wing, 
What  do  they  sing  in  the  spring  of  their 
time  ? 

If  this  be  the  rose  that  the  world  hears  singing, 
Soft  in  the  soft  night,  loud  in  the  day, 

Songs  for  the  fire-flies  to  dance  as  they 
hear ; 
If  that  be  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  springing 
Forth  in  the  form  of  a  rose  in  May, 

What  do  they  say  of  the  way  of  the  year? 


SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 


What  of  the  way  of  the  world  gone  Maying, 
What  of  the  work  of  the  buds  in  the  bowers, 
What  of  the  will  of  the  wind  on  the  wall, 
Fluttering  the  wall-flowers,  sighing  and  playing, 
Shrinking  again  as  a  bird  that  cowers, 

Thinking  of  hours  when  the  flowers  have 
to  fall  ? 


Out  of  the  throats  of  the  loud  birds  showering, 
Out  of  the  folds  where  the  flag-lilies  leap. 
Out  of  the  mouths  of  the  roses  stirred, 
Out  of  the  herbs  on  the  walls  reflowering, 

Out  of  the  heights  where  the  sheer  snows  sleep, 
Out  of  the  deep  and  the  steep,  one  word. 

One  from  the  lips  of  the  lily-flames  leaping, 
The  glad  red  lilies  that  burn  in  our  sight, 

The    great    live    lilies    for    standard   and 
crown  ; 


SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 


One  from  the  steeps  where  the  pines  stand  sleep- 
ing, 
One  from  the  deep  land,  one  from  the  height, 
One  from  the  light  and  the  might  of  the 
town. 


The  lowlands  laugh  with  delight  of  the  highlands, 
Whence  May  winds  feed  them  with  balm  and 
breath 
From  hills  that  beheld  in  the  years  behind 
A  shape  as  of  one  from  the  blest  souls'  islands, 
Made  fair  by  a  soul  too  fair  for  death, 

With  eyes  on  the  light  that  should  smite 
them  blind. 


Vallombrosa  remotely  remembers, 

Perchance,  what  still  to  us  seems  so  near 

That  time  not  darkens  it,  change  not  mars, 


SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 


The  foot  that  she  knew  when  her  leaves  were 
September's, 
The  face  lift  up  to  the  star-blind  seer, 

That  saw  from  his  prison  arisen  his  stars. 

And  Pisa  broods  on  her  dead,  not  mourning, 
For  love  of  her  loveliness  given  them  in  fee ; 
And  Prato  gleams  with  the  glad  monk's 
gift 
Whose  hand  was  there  as  the  hand  of  morning  ; 
And  Siena,  set  in  the  sand's  red  sea, 

Lifts  loftier  her  head  than  the  red  sand's 
drift. 

And  far  to  the  fair  south-westward  lightens, 
Girdled  and  sandalled  and  plumed  with  flowers 
At  sunset  over  the  love-lit  lands, 
The  hill-side's  crown  where  the  wild  hill  brightens, 
Saint  Fina's  town  of  the  Beautiful  Towers, 
Hailing  the  sun  with  a  hundred  hands. 


SPRING    IN    TUSCANY 


Land  of  us  all  that  have  loved  thee  dearliest, 
Mother  of  men  that  were  lords  of  man, 

Whose  name  in  the  world's  heart  works  as 
a  spell, 
My  last  song's  light,  and  the  star  of  mine  earliest, 
As  we  turn  from  thee,  sweet,  who  wast  ours  for 
a  span, 
Fare  well  we  may  not  who  say  farewell. 

ALGERNON    C.    SWINBURNE. 


WITH    A    POETRY    BOOK 

THIS  may  beguile  a  moment  in  some  day 
Of  brief  division  from  a  city's  roar, 
When  in  the  rush,  the  turbulence,  the  din 
There  comes  a  pause.     Then  one  may  think  of 

fields, 
Of  flowers,  of  birds,  of  all  sweet  natural  things 
That  never  lose  their  spell  upon  the  soul. 
In  such  an  hour  of  the  dim  afternoon, 
When  yellow  fog  has  curtained  up  the  pane, 
Draw  to  the  lamp  and  read  of  tragedies 
How  kings  and  sons   of  kings  have  met  their 

deaths ; 
And  if  you  tire  of  all  the  writer's  art, 
Think,  then,  of  Venice  in  her  sapphire  sea, 
Of  me  afloat  upon  the  calm  lagoon 
Brought  face  to  face  with  a  great  golden  shield 
That  glorifies  the  water  and  the  sky ; 


WITH    A    POETRY    BOOK 


While  from  tall  towers  wreathed  in  opal  mist, 
Sweet  bells  spread  melody  along  the  waves, 
Warning  me  that  all  lovely  hours  must  die ; 
And  that  we,  too.  are  hurrying  to  our  end. 

PERCY    E.    PIXKERTOX. 


UMBRIA 

EEP  Italian  day  with  a  wide-washed  splen- 


jLJ     dour  fills 


Umbria  green  with  valleys,  blue  with  a  hundred 
hills. 

Dim  in  the  south  Soracte,  a  far  rock  faint  as  a 
cloud 

Rumours  Rome,  that  of  old  spoke  over  earth, 
"  Thou  art  mine  !  " 

Mountain  shouldering  mountain  circles  us  forest- 
browed 

Heaped  upon  each  horizon  in  fair  uneven  line ; 

And  white  as  on  builded  altars  tipped  with  a 
vestal  flame 

City  on  city  afar  from  the  thrones  of  the  moun- 
tains shine, 

Kindling,  for  us  that  name  them,  many  a  memo- 
ried  fame, 


UMBRIA 


Out  of  the  murmuring  ages,  flushing  the  heart 

like  wine. 
Pilgrim-desired  Assisi  is  there ;  Spoleto  proud 
With  Rome's  imperial  arches,  with  hanging  woods 

divine  : 
Monte  Falco  hovers  above  the  hazy  vale 
Of  sweet  Clitumnus  loitering  under  poplars  pale  ; 
O'er  Foligno,  Trevi  clings  upon  Apennine. 
And  over  this  Umbrian  earth  —  from  where  with 

bright  snow  spread 
Towers  abrupt  Leonessa,  huge,  like  a  dragon's 

chine, 
To  western  Ammiata's  mist-apparelled  head, 
Ammiata  that  sailors  watch  on  wide  Tyrrhenian 

waves, — 
Lie  in  the  jealous  gloom  of  cold  and  secret  shrine 
Or  Gorgon-sculptured  chamber  hewn  in  old  rock 

caves, 
Hiding  their  dreams  from  the  light,  the  austere 

Etruscan  dead. 


UMBRIA 


O  lone  forests  of  oak  and  little  cyclamens  red 
Flowering  under  shadowy  silent  boughs  benign  ! 
Streams  that  wander  beneath  us  over  a  pebbly 

bed! 
Hedges  of  dewy  hawthorn  and  wild  woodbine ! 
Now  as  the  eastern  ranges  flush  and  the  high  air 

chills 
Blurring  meadowy  vale,  blackening  heaths  of  pine, 
Now  as  in  distant  Todi,  loftily-towered  —  a  sign 
To  wearying  travellers  —  lights  o'er  hollow  Tiber 

gleam, 
Now  our  voices  are  stilled  and  our  eyes  are  given 

to  a  dream, 
As  night,  upbringing  o'er  us  the  ancient  stars  anew, 
Stars  that  triumphing  Caesar  and  tender  Francis 

knew, 
With  fancied  voices  mild,  august,  immortal,  fills 
Umbria  dim  with  valleys,  dark  with  a  hundred 

hills. 

LAURENCE    BINYON. 


IN    FLORENCE 

O  TUSCAN  days,  my  true,  gold-hearted  days, 
With  thy  deep  skies  and  fleecy  clouds  afloat, 
Like  the  dropped  petals  of  some  moon-pale  flower ; 

With  thy  still  sunset,  zephyr-stirred  hour, 

Thy  evening  bird  with  thrilled  melodious  throat .  .  . 

Gone,  gone  from  me,  my  golden  Tuscan  day. 

Once  wert  thou  with  me  in  fair  Florence,  crown 

Of  all  that  perfect,  flower-filled  Italy. 

Thy  name,  O  Florence,  like  a  song  doth  fill 

With  memories  the  gray  unblossoming  still 
That  girts  me  round  and  holds  me  fast  from  thee  — 
From  thee,  O  peaceful,  perfect  Tuscan  town. 

Thy  lang'rous  hush  at  even-tide  just  stirred 
By  some  faint  convent  chime  from  very  far, 
Thy  murmurous  Arno  speeding  on  its  way, 


16  IN    FLORENCE 


And  in  the  East  a  shadow  wan  and  gray, 
Kindled  to  brightness  by  a  single  star, 
And  somewhere  in  the  West  a  singing  bird. 

All  mem'ries.     And  the  window  whence  my  eyes 
Saw  Ponte  Vecchio  with  its  old-time  mien, 
Like  some  rich  gem  set  deep  in  thy  gold  heart ; 

And  faint  Fiesole,  where  pale  clouds  start, 
Dusted  with  leafy  olive-trees,  gray-green, 
That  fade  off  in  the  shadow-girted  skies. 

O  Florence,  my  fair  Florence,  I  would  stray 
Once  more  to-day,  as  in  that  dear  dead  time, 
Along  the  streets  at  golden  mid-noon's  hour, 

Till  thy  old  Duomo  and  thy  slender  tower 
Rose  up  before  me  with  its  mid-noon  chime, 
And  haply  step  therein.     All  twilight  gray, 


IN    FLORENCE 


With  a  faint  trail  of  incense  on  the  air, 
And  the  low  murmured  hidden  monotone 
Of  priests  at  holy  mass.     So,  entered  in, 

How  still  it  seemed  after  the  city's  din, 
How  solemn  sweet  the  organ's  vibrant  tone. 
I  did  not  pray.     The  silence  was  a  prayer. 

Then  out  again  into  the  rain  of  gold 

Flooding  the  broad  gay  piazza  everywhere  .   .  . 

A  flutter  of  white  wings,  a  flock  of  birds 

Let  loose,  like  some  sweet  tumult  of  love  words, 
Floating  and  sweeping  through  the  sun-cleft  air, 
To  peck  the  golden  grain  some  hands  would  hold. 

In  those  Spring  days  (Spring  comes  with  tend'rer 

look, 
And  far  more  lavish  hands  to  that  sweet  place, 
My  little  Tuscan  town,  than  to  this  clime, 


[8  IN    FLORENCE 


Cold  England  and  its  fogs)  I  used  to  climb 
Thy  Colli,  Florence — climbing,  reach  the  place 
Where  thy  sweet  face  lies  stretched  out  like  a  book ; 

Lies  stretched  out  like  a  soft  smile,  caught  and 

kept 
From  the  Past's  fast-sealed  lips,  or  like  a  flower 
Yielding  its  petals  up  to  the  blue  sky. 

And  when  I  strayed  back  to  the  city,  I 
Found  all  things  flooded  with  the  sunset  hour 
Save  Ponte  Vecchio,  where  the  shadows  crept. 

Elsewise  at  night  —  the  amorous  Tuscan  night, 
When  the  white  moon  had  climbed  the  silver  stair 
The  fair  stars  make  for  their  most  lowly  Queen  — 

How  sweet  from  out  the  casement  far  to  lean, 

And  feel  the  fragrance  of  the  dewy  air, 

And  see  the  whole  world  bathed  in  silver  light ! 


IN    FLORENCE  19 


Warm  Tuscan  sun  !  in  that  last  dreaming  lull 
'Tvvixt  night  and  day,  along  the  Western  ways 
Thy  tender  light  hath  set  from  me  fore'er : 

Set,    with    my  first  lost    love,   lost    dream,    lost 
prayer  .   .   . 

0  Tuscan  days !  my  true,  gold-hearted  days, 
Thy  lips  are  dumb,  and  mine  are  sorrowful. 

Thy  earth  beneath  my  feet  is  cold  and  brown, 
The  skies  are  netted  in  a  blank,  gray  shroud, 
The  mournful  rain  is  dripping  from  the  eaves.  .  .  . 

Lost — like  a  flower  too  deep-sunk  in  the  leaves; 
Lost  —  like  a  white  star  hidden  by  a  cloud, 

1  see  thee  now,  O  little  Tuscan  town  ! 

CORA    FABBRI. 


FLORENTINE    MAY 

STILL,  still  is  the  Night;  still  as  the  pause 
after  pain  ; 

Still  and  as  dear  ; 
Deep,  solemn,  immense ;  veiling  the  stars  in  the 

clear 
Thrilling  and  luminous   blue   of   the   moon-shot 
atmosphere ; 

Ah,  could  the  Night  remain  ! 

Who,  truly,  shall  say  thou  art  sullen  or  dark  or 
unseen, 

Thou,  O  heavenly  Night, 
Clear  o'er  the  valley  of  olives  asleep  in  the  quiv- 
ering light, 
Clear  o'er  the  pale-red  hedge  of  the  rose,  and  the 
lilies  all  white 

Down  at  my  feet  in  the  green  ? 


FLORENTINE    MAY 


Nay,  not  as  the  Day,  thou  art  light,  O  Night,  with 
a  beam 

Far  more  dear  and  divine  ; 
Never  the   noon   was    blue   as   these  tremulous 

heavens  of  thine, 
Pulsing  with  stars  half  seen,  and  vague  in  a  pal- 
lid shine, 

Vague  as  a  dream. 

Night,  clear  with  the  moon,  filled  with  the  dreamy 
fire 

Shining  in  thicket  and  close, 
Fire  from  the  lamp  in  his  breast  that  the  luminous 

fire-fly  throws  ; 
Night,  full  of  wandering  light  and  of  song,  and 
the  blossoming  rose, 

Night,  be  thou  my  desire ! 

Night,  Angel  of  Night,  hold  me  and  cover  me  so  — 
Open  thy  wings  ! 


FLORENTINE    MAY 


Ah,  bend  above  and  embrace  !  —  till  I  hear  in  the 

one  bird  that  sings 
The  throb  of  thy  musical  heart  in  the  dusk,  and 

the  magical  things 

Only  the  Night  can  know. 

A.    MARY    F.    ROBINSON. 


RICORDI 

OF  a  tower,  of  a  tower,  white 
In  the  warm  Italian  night, 
Of  a  tower  that  shines  and  springs 
I  dream,  and  of  our  delight. 

Of  doves,  of  a  hundred  wings 
Sweeping  in  sound  that  sings 
Past  our  faces,  and  wide 
Returning  in  tremulous  rings : 

Of  a  window  on  Arno  side, 
Sun-warm  when  the  rain  has  dried 
On  the  roofs,  and  from  far  below 
The  clear  street-cries  are  cried  : 

Of  a  certain  court  we  know, 
And  love's  and  sorrow's  throe 


24  RICORDI 


In  marbles  of  mighty  limb, 

And  the  beat  of  our  hearts  aglow : 


-&j 


Of  water  whispering  dim 
To  a  porphyry  basin's  rim  ; 
Of  flowers  on  a  windy  wall 
Richly  tossing,  I  dream. 

And  of  white  towns  nestling  small 
Upon  Apennine,  with  a  tall 
Tower  in  the  sunset  air 
Sounding  soft  vesper-call : 

And  of  golden  morning  bare 
On  Lucca  roofs,  and  fair 
Blue  hills,  and  scent  that  shook 
From  blossoming  chestnuts,  where 

Red  ramparts  overlook 

Hot  meadow  and  leafy  nook, 


RICORDI  25 


Where  girls  with  laughing  cries 
Beat  clothes  in  a  glittering  brook : 

And  of  magic-builded  skies 
Upon  still  lagoons ;  and  wise 
Padua's  pillared  street 
In  the  charm  of  a  day  that  dies : 

Of  olive-shade  in  the  heat, 
And  a  lone,  cool,  rocky  seat 
On  an  island  beach,  and  bright 
Fresh  ripples  about  our  feet : 

Of  mountains  in  vast  moon-light, 
Of  rivers'  rushing  flight, 
Of  gardens  of  green  retreat 
I  dream,  and  of  our  delight. 

LAURE^XE    BINYON. 


IN    AN    ARBOUR,    ASOLO 

MY  perfumed  jasmine-tent  commands 
An  outlook  vast  along  the  lands. 
Northward,  green  hills  confront  my  gaze, 
Shrouded  in  filmy  morning  haze. 
Their  smooth  sides  take  a  deeper  dye 
As  the  red  sun  deserts  the  sky, 
When  clouds,  like  poppy-petals,  fall 
And  fade  around  a  purple  wall 
Whose  top  one  fain  would  tread  and  see 
All  that  across  the  barrier  be. 
Here,  where  the  white  road  bends  below, 
Are  ranged  the  roofs  of  Asolo, 
An  old,  uneven,  faded  file 
Of  broken  beams  and  rusty  tile. 
The  stones  which  strew  that  quiet  street 
Were  trampled  once  by  Roman  feet, 
When  through  the  city's  gateway  arched 


IX    AN    ARBOUR,    A  SOLO  27 

Caesar's  intrepid  legions  marched, 

And  every  house  had  harbour  for 

The  cohorts  of  a  conqueror. 

They,  in  these  peaceful  hills,  maybe, 

Forgot  their  lust  for  victory, 

Forgot  red  war  in  hours  of  ease 

Above  the  waving  apple-trees ; 

And,  in  the  silence  of  the  plain, 

Heard  Nature's  eloquence  again. 

In  later  days  those  walls  have  been 

Safe  shelter  for  a  Cypriote  queen, 

Catherine  Cornaro,  homeless  wife, 

Here  fled  when  clouds  were  round  her  life 

And,  shut  in  painted  palace,  she 

Shook  off  the  chains  of  royalty. 

Ah  !  she  was  wise  ;  here  one  enjoys 

Peace  after  clamour,  after  noise 

Of  cities  and  the  ceaseless  strain 

To  win  what  one  will  lose  again. 

Am  I  not  rich  who  hear  the  bees 


28  IN    AN    ARBOUR,    ASOLO 

Kissing  those  pale  anemones 

That  make  the  grass  about  my  feet 

A  coloured  pavement  rich  and  sweet ; 

Who  see  the  birch-leaves  on  their  stem 

Shake  as  the  wind  goes  over  them  ; 

Is  not  this  opulence  for  me 

Here  to  forget  futurity, 

And  leave  all  feverish  questioning 

If  life  be  just  a  trivial  thing, 

That  they  use  best  who  multiply 

Their  pleasures  in  it  ere  they  die, 

Ignoring  an  eternity  ? 

Is  not  this  wealth,  to  bask  supine 

Beneath  a  roof  of  jessamine  ? 

Yes,  it  is  enviable  ;  and  yet, 
No  mood  uncoloured  by  regret 
Visits  my  vexed  heart  that  now 
As  ever  questions  :  where  art  thou  ? 
For  I  am  chafed  with  memories 


IN    AN    ARBOUR,    ASOLO  29 

Of  life  below  the  moonlit  skies 
With  thee  in  Venice,  while  our  bark 
Aimlessly  loitered  in  the  dark, 
And  tremulous,  pathetic  notes 
Reached  us  from  yellow-lanterned  boats, 
As  violins  and  voices  there 
Showered  sweet  sounds  upon  the  air ; 
Sunk  in  a  reverie  sublime, 
Oblivious  of  the  world,  of  Time, 
No  better  fate  we  wished  than  here 
Across  moon-silvered  waves  to  steer 
Serenely  to  some  shining  beach 
Where  never  Nemesis  may  reach; 
Where  as  an  echo  heard  should  be 
The  hubbub  of  humanity; 
Where  we  should  win  deliverance 
From  all  the  tyranny  of  Chance ; 
And  memory  should  keep  no  mark 
Upon  her  scrolls  of  sad  and  dark ; 
So,  ours  were  e'en  a  fairer  home 


30  IN    AN    ARBOUR,    ASOLO 

Than  Venice  in  the  Adrian  foam  ! 
Ah  !  by  recalling  selfish  dreams 
The  present  only  wearier  seems. 
I  want  Thee ;  yet  away,  afar, 
Beyond  the  blue  horizon  bar 
Are  opening  now  those  orient  eyes, 
Where  first  my  soul  saw  Paradise. 

PERCY    E.    PINKERTON. 


RELICS 

THIS  flower  that  smells  of  honey  and  the  sea, 
White  laurustine,  seems  in  my  hand  to  be 
A  white  star  made  of  memory  long  ago 
Lit  in  the  heaven  of  dear  times  dead  to  me. 

A  star  out  of  the  skies  love  used  to  know 
Here  held  in  hand,  a  stray  left  yet  to  show 

What  flowers  my  heart  was  full  of  in  the  clays 
That  are  long  since  gone  down  dead  memory's 
flow. 

Dead  memory  that  revives  on  doubtful  ways, 
Half  hearkening  what  the  buried  season  says 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  unapparent  dead 
Where  the  lost  Aprils  are,  and  the  lost  Mays. 

Flower,  once  I  knew  thy  star-white  brethren  bred 
Nigh  where  the  last  of  all  the  land  made  head 


32  RELICS 


Against  the  sea,  a  keen-faced  promontory, 
Flowers  on  salt  wind  and  sprinkled  sea-dews  fed. 

Their  hearts  were  glad  of  the  free  place's  glory  ; 
The  wind  that  sang  them  all  his  stormy  story 

Had  talked  all  winter  to  the  sleepless  spray, 
And  as  the  sea's  their  hues  were  hard  and  hoary. 

Like  things  born  of  the  sea  and  the  bright  day, 
They  laughed  out  at  the  years  that  could  not  slay, 

Live  sons  and  joyous  of  unquiet  hours, 
And  stronger  than  all  storms  that  range  for  prey. 

And  in  the  close  indomitable  flowers 
A  keen-edged  odour  of  the  sun  and  showers 
Was  as  the  smell  of  the  fresh  honeycomb 
Made  sweet  for  mouths  of  none  but  paramours. 

Out  of  the  hard  green  wall  of  leaves  that  clomb 
They  showed  like  windfalls  of  the  snow-soft  foam, 


RELICS  33 


Or  feathers  from  the  weary  south-wind's  wing, 
Fair  as  the  spray  that  it  came  shoreward  from. 

And  thou,  as  white,  what  word  hast  thou  to  bring  ? 
If  my  heart  hearken,  whereof  wilt  thou  sing? 
For  some  sign  surely  thou  too  hast  to  bear, 
Some  word  far  south  was  taught  thee  of  the  spring. 

White  like  a  white  rose,  not  like  these  that  were 
Taught  of  the  wind's  mouth  and  the  winter  air, 

Poor  tender  thing  of  soft  Italian  bloom, 
Where  once  thou  grewest,  what  else  for  me  grew 
there  ? 

Born  in  what  spring  and  on  what  city's  tomb, 
By  whose  hand  wast  thou  reached,  and  plucked 

for  whom  ? 
There  hangs  about  thee,  could  the  soul's  sense 

tell, 
An  odour  as  of  love  and  of  love's  doom. 


34  RELICS 


Of  days  more  sweet  than  thou  wast  sweet  to  smell, 
Of  flower-soft  thoughts  that  came  to  flower  and  fell, 

Of  loves  that  lived  a  lily's  life  and  died, 
Of  dreams  now  dwelling  where  dead  roses  dwell. 

O  white  birth  of  the  golden  mountain-side 
That  for  the  sun's  love  makes  its  bosom  wide 

At  sunrise,  and  with  all  its  woods  and  flowers 
Takes  in  the  morning  to  its  heart  of  pride ! 

Thou  hast  a  word  of  that  one  land  of  ours, 
And  of  the  fair  town  called  of  the  fair  towers, 

A  word  for  me  of  my  San  Gimignan, 
A  word  of  April's  greenest-girdled  hours. 

Of  the  breached  walls  whereon  the  wallflowers  ran 
Called  of  Saint  Fina,  breachless  now  of  man, 
Though  time  with  soft  feet  break  them  stone  by 

stone, 
Who  breaks  down  hour  by  hour  his  own  reign's 

span. 


RELICS  35 


Off  the  cliff  overcome  and  overgrown 
That  all  that  rlowerage  clothed  as  flesh  clothes 
bone. 
That  garment  of  acacias  made  for  May, 
Whereof  here  lies  one  witness  overblown. 

The  fair  brave  trees  with  all  their  flowers  at  play, 
How  king-like  they  stood  up  into  the  day ! 

How  sweet  the  day  was  with  them,  and  the 
night ! 
Such  words  of  message  have  dead  flowers  to  say. 

This  that  the  winter  and  the  wind  made  bright, 
And  this  that  lived  upon  Italian  light, 

Before  I  throw  them  and  these  words  away, 
Who  knows  but  I  what  memories  too  take  flight  ? 

ALGERNON  C.  SWINBURNE. 


IN    A    GONDOLA 

(suggested   by    Mendelssohn's   andante   in  g 
minor,  book  i,  lied  6,  of  the  "  lieder  ohne 

WORTE  ") 


IN  Venice  !     This  night  so  delicious  —  its  air 
Full  of  moonlight  and  passionate  snatches 
of  song, 
And   quick  cries,  and   perfume  of  romances, 
which  throng 
To  my  brain,  as  I  steal  down  this  marble  sea-stair. 

And  my  gondola  comes. 
And  I  hear  the  slow,  rhythmical  sweep  of  the  oar 
Drawing  near  and  more  near  —  and  the  noise 

of  the  prow  — 
And  the  sharp,  sudden  splash  of  her  stoppage 
—  and  now 


IN    A    GONDOLA  37 

I   step  in  ;  we  are  off  o'er  the   street's  heaving 
floor, 

As  my  gondola  glides 
Away,  past  these  palaces  silent  and  dark, 

Looming  ghostly  and   grim   o'er  their  bases, 

where  clings 
Rank  seaweed  that  gleams  flecked  with  light 
as  it  swings 
To  the  plash  of  the  waves,  where  they  reach  the 

tide-mark 
On  the  porphyry  blocks  —  with  a  song  full  of  dole, 
A  forlorn  barcarole, 
As  my  gondola  glides. 


11. 


And  the  wind  seems  to  sigh  through  that  lattice 
rust-gnawn 
A  low  dirge  for  the  past :  the  sweet  past  when 
it  played 


38  INAGONDOLA 

In  the  pearl-braided  hair  of  some  beauty,  who 
stayed 
But  one  shrinking  half-minute  —  her  mantle  close- 
drawn 
O'er  the  swell  of  her  bosom  and  cheeks  passion- 
pale, 
Ere  her  lover  came  by,  and  they  kissed.    "  They 

are  clay, 
Those  fire-hearted  men  with  the  regal  pulse- 
play  ; 
They  are  dust !  "  sighs  the  wind  with  its  whisper 
of  wail : 
"Those  women  snow-pure,  flower-sweet,  pas- 
sion-pale !  " 
And  the  waves  make  reply  with  their  song  full 
of  dole, 

Their  forlorn  barcarole, 
As  my  gondola  glides. 


INAGONDOLA  39 


III. 


Dust —  those  lovers  !     But  Love  ever  lives,  ever 
new, 
Still  the  same  :  so  we  shoot  into  bustle  and  light, 
And  lamps  from  the  festal  casinos  stream  bright 
On  the  ripples  —  and  here  's  the  Rialto  in  view  ; 
And  black  gondolas,  spirit-like,  cross  or  slide  past, 
And  the  gondoliers  cry  to  each  other:  a  song 
Far  away,  from  sweet  voices  in  tune,  dies  along 
The  waters  moon-silvered.     So  on  to  the  vast 
Shadowy  span  of  an  arch  where  the  oar-echoes 
leap 
Through  chill  gloom  from  the  marble ;   then 

moonlight  once  more, 
And  laughter  and  strum  of  guitars  from  the 
shore, 
And  sonorous  bass-music  of  bells  booming  deep 
From  St.  Mark's.     Still  those  waves  with  their 
song  full  of  dole, 


4o  INAGONDOLA 

Their  forlorn  barcarole, 
As  my  gondola  glides. 

IV. 

Here  the  night  is  voluptuous  with  odorous  sighs 
From  verandas  o'erstarred  with  dim  jessamine 

flowers, 
Their  still  scent  deep-stirred  by  the  tremulous 
showers 
Of  a  nightingale's  notes  as  his  song  swells  and 
dies — 

While  my  gondola  glides. 

v. 

Dust — those  lovers! — who  floated  and  dreamed 

long  ago, 
Gazed  and  languished  and    loved,   on    these 

waters,  —  where  I 
Float    and    dream    and   gaze    up   in   the   still 

summer  sky 


IN    A    GONDOLA  41 

Whence  the  great  stars  look  down  —  as  they  did 

long  ago  ; 
Where  the  moon  seems  to  dream  with  my  dream- 
ing—  disc-hid 
In  a  gossamer  veil  of  white  cirrhus — then  breaks 
The  dream-spell  with  a  pensive  half-smile,  as 
she  wakes 
To   new   splendor.     But  lo !  while   I   mused   we 

have  slid 
From  the  open  —  the  stir  —  down  a  lonely  lane- 
way 
Into  hush  and  dark  shadow :  fresh  smells  of 

the  sea 
Come  cool  from  beyond;  a  faint  lamp  mistily 
Hints  fair  shafts  and  quaint  arches,  in  crumbling 
decay ; 
And  the  waves  still  break  in  with  their  song 
full  of  dole, 

Their  forlorn  barcarole, 
As  my  gondola  glides. 


42  IN    A    GONDOLA 


VI. 


Then  the  silent  lagune  stretched  away  through 

the  night, 

And  the  stars,  —  and  the  fairy-like  city  behind, 

Domes  and  spires  rising  spectral  and  dim :  till 

the  mind 

Becomes    tranced   in   a   vague,   subtle    maze    of 

delight ; 
And  I  float  in  a   dream,   lose  the  present  —  or 
seem 
To  have  lived  it  before.    Then  a  sense  of  deep 

bliss, 
Just  to  breathe  —  to  exist  —  in  a  night  such  as 
this: 
Just  to  feel  what  I  feel,  drowns  all  else.    But  the 

gleam 
Of  the  lights,  as  we  turn  to  the  city  once  more, 
And  the  music,  and  clangor  of  bells  booming 
slow, 


INAGONDOLA  43 

And   this  consummate  vision,    St.   Mark's!  — 
the  star-glow 
For   a   background  —  crowns  all.     Then   I   step 
out  on  shore : 
The  Piazzetta  !  my  life-dream  accomplished  at 
last, 

(As  my  gondola  goes.) 
I  am  here :  here  alone  with  the  ghost  of  the  Past ! 
But  the  waves  still  break  in  with  their  song  full 
of  dole, 

Their  forlorn  barcarole, 
As  my  gondola  goes  ; 
And  the  pulse  of  the  oar  swept  through  silvery 

spray 
Dies  away  in  the  gloom,  dies  away,  dies  away  — 
Dies  away dies  away ! 

AUREOLUS    PARACELSUS. 


LA    RETRAITE 

WRITTEN    ON   THE   LAST    PAGE    OF    A    GIFT    BOOK 

OLD  books,  old  flowers,  old  feelings,  foliage 
pressed 
By  Time,  who  lays  the  stony  weight  of  years 
Upon  our  palpitating  hopes  and  fears, 
The  scented  herbage  of  our  throbbing  breast ! 
These  leaves  I  turn,  on  a  vague  scholar's  quest, 
In  search  of  some  frail  thought  that  disap- 
pears ; 
But  meet,  instead,  the  broad   soul-haunted 

meres 
Of  memory,  and  the  friend's  face  I  love  best. 
Dearest,  this  book  I  gave  you  years  ago : 
I  find  it  now  in  Florence ;  and  I  write, 
Here  by  your  hearth,  words  you  may  never 
know. 


LARETRAITE  45 


Live  well ;  live  happy.     Short  is  day,  but  bright. 
The  Bersaglieri  on  the  flags  below 
Cry  :  Comes  for  us,  for  you,  for  all  the  night ! 

JOHN    ADDINGTON    SYMONDS. 


0  PRIMA  VERA,  GIO  VENTU  DE  UANNO 

O  SPRING,  thou  youthful  beauty  of  the  year, 
Mother   of  flowers,    bringer   of  warbling 
quires, 
Of  all  sweet  new  green  things  and  new  desires, 
Thou,  Spring,  returnest ;  but,  alas !  with  thee 
ATo  more  return  to  me 

The  calm  and  happy  days  these  eyes  were  7ised  to  see. 
Thou,  thou  returnest,  thou, 
But  with  thee  returns  now 
Nought  else  but  dread  remembrance  of  the  pleasure 

1  took  in  my  lost  treasure. 

Thou  still,  thou  still,  art  the  same  blithe,  sweet  thing 
Thou  ever  wast,  O  Spring  ; 
But  I,  in  whose  weak  orbs  these  tears  arise, 
Am  what  I  was  ?w  more,  dear  to  afiother's  eyes. 

GIOVANNI    BATTISTA    GUARINI, 

(Translated  by  Leigh  Hunt.) 


HERE  ENDS  SPRING  IN  TUSCANY 
AND  OTHER  LYRICS  PRINTED  FOR 
THOMAS  B  MOSHER  AND  PUBLISHED 
BY  HIM  AT  XLV  EXCHANGE  STREET 
PORTLAND    MAINE    MDCCCCXII 


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APR  3  0  1953 


B     000  016  886     , 


